I come alive in the fall time
by but seriously
Summary: The decision he'd made was this: "Damon's out. You're in."
1. i'm tryna put you in the worst mood

hello, pervs. i wrote this for ishi, because i am weak and she is scary. nah jokes, i love her loads, and she wanted fic where stefan ropes caroline into his soul-ferrying shenanigans, and it became an exploration of a bunch of things i wish the show would've given me with humanity-less stefan. i mean dude, you can't even give me one scene of them angst-barbing while DANCING? low blow.

so here, have some porn to tide you over til the next episode, where they've got some serious explaining to do.

UNBETA'd, i stuck the whole thing here without proofreading because i am horrified/impressed at myself for actually writing something in one sitting for once. will go back and rectify any/all mistakes later.

* * *

 **I come alive in the fall time**

—

—

It's not so much that Caroline is bothering him, it's the fact that he is bothered at all. He realizes this on the way home, and even as he's divulging two drunk teenagers of their souls. He feels the thrill of their blood trickling down his wrists, but it is a lukewarm thrill, just a faint tugging on his gums. He presses his thumbs down – the boy's eyeballs bulge, red drool spills down over his chin. Stefan listens for his own heart: no, it doesn't pound.

He's not enjoying this as he usually would.

He's bothered. He shouldn't _be_ bothered.

So he makes a decision.

—

—

Being stripped off his humanity, he is blissfully unaware of many emotional qualms that might drag him down usually – looking at her standing there, damp hair curling down her shoulders, might have once stirred something within him. He recognizes, on some distant, removed plane, how remarkably beautiful she is.

"You weren't at the boarding house," he says.

Caroline shoots him a look. His tone had come off as schooling. She might have let it slide, but he'd spent the last few days trying to push as many buttons of hers as he possibly could. If he can't love her, he could have at least had some _fun_ —

But she's not looking for fun, is she?

 _Happiness_ , she said. _Not fun_.

Strange creature.

She looks at him through the mirror. Her lips are set in a straight line. She's freshly changed into a night shirt – the fold lines are still visible around the shoulders. He is reminded of an afternoon they spent on the floor of the laundry room, her chastising him for the way he folded his sleeves.

He arranges himself straighter against her door frame, hoping the urge to clear his throat was temporary. She hasn't answered, but he is skilled in the art of waiting.

"Didn't feel like being there," is what she offers finally, and she goes back to brushing her damp hair.

"Moving out already?"

Stefan watches her face closely. Caroline, on her part, reveals nothing. Her hand remains steady as she drags the comb through her hair in slow, methodical strokes. He hears the bristles move through her hair, but he can't hear her thinking as he is usually able to.

"You aren't over me already, are you?" he asks, his lip quirking.

Again, she doesn't answer him. He could weigh in on this, or… he could take away her distraction.

He's behind her in an instant; her hair's blown away from her shoulders with the speed of it. He takes the brush from her hand and starts working through the tangles at her crown. Caroline's stiffened up visibly to have him so close, and he smiles – he cannot feel, but he can smile, and he tries not to hum so triumphantly as he combs her hair.

"You in your childhood bedroom. It was _one_ pageant, Caroline. You can't be regressing that badly."

Caroline sighs. It rattles through her chest, the heaviness of it. "What do you want, Stefan?"

"My fiancé," he says simply.

She isn't yet angry, it doesn't show on her face, but her shoulders stiffen once more. He can practically feel the room grow colder. Of course it's only a figure of speech, seeing as vampires don't exactly feel the cold. And flipped-switch vampires don't feel – but he's rambling, he gets this way after a kill, even unsatisfying ones.

Damon needs to get out of his rut. Gloating isn't half as fun without an audience.

Caroline digests this. She regards him through the reflection of her vanity, pictures of a younger Matt, Elena, Bonnie, Tyler still scattered in corners. He wishes her eyes weren't so blue. She'd chosen pink today, it made her look soft, otherworldly, not so difficult to look at. It muted all other colours of her, made her look like a rose. Definitely easy to touch, to enjoy having in his arms as he spun her through the throng of warm bodies.

Here, in the dim lighting of her bedroom, her eyelashes absent from mascara, her eyes seem to glow. It is strange, unnecessary poetry.

"Something bothering you? You're frowning." Caroline is smiling at him through the mirror. Too saccharine. He narrows his eyes, drags the brush down. It tickles against her neck, whisper light.

"I was remembering," he says softly, letting his thumbnail graze the side of her neck even as his other hand continues combing, "how pretty your neck is."

The smile is gone now. "Don't you have souls to feed Cade or something?"

"Thought I'd take the night off, come home to my beautiful fiancé," he replies, "but when I got to our bedroom – she sleeps early these days, bless her – imagine my surprise when she wasn't there."

"You with any sort of emotion would be hard to imagine, actually," Caroline snips. "I told you to stay away from me."

"You didn't tell me hard enough." He brushes hair off her neck and trails his forefinger down the smooth skin there. "Even now."

Keeping his eyes on hers, he bends down until his mouth is level with her ear, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of her neck. Caroline fights, but her eyes close all the same. He huffs a laugh at that over her neck and hears her sharp intake of breath. "Love," he murmurs. "What a conundrum."

"So you do still love me then," she says, quietly. And it sounds so _sad_ he has to resist the urge to roll his eyes, because he's emotionless, not _desensitized_. She should know this. She's been there before.

God, he misses those days.

And then he snickers, because – God. Old habits. With Cade around he doesn't need to be talking to that guy, does he?

He twirls a curl around his finger, puts his nose to her neck, breathes her in. When she was living at the boarding house, she walked around smelling of him, skin hot from the shower. Here in her old bedroom she smells of something flowery, and if it doesn't irk that possessive streak of his he doesn't know what would—which probably explains the lingering kiss he leaves on her neck, and that kick he gets out of her gasp.

Until he's flat on his ass on her floor, her elbow slammed into his throat. "What the _fuck_ , Stefan. You do not just _waltz_ into my bedroom—"

He shifts his weight, pins _her_ to the floor, "I did not _waltz_ —"

She bares her teeth and in an instant he's against the wall, the vanity shaking. "Yeah, like your dancing today? Way to be a terrible partner, Stefan."

"I never said I was a good dancer," he says, and he places a firm hand on the small of her back and wraps his fingers around her beating wrist. "You should stop trying to convince yourself."

She sidesteps him, they end up in a jerky loop where she is pressed close to his chest, her cheeks flushed. His breathing is labored as well – the spot between his ribs where she'd hurled that broken chair leg at him thuds in reminder, _you're good at this killing thing_ —

"Are you seriously dancing with me right now?"

—he should stop losing his train of thought. It was starting to get very close to irritating now.

He gives a noncommittal hum, twirls her around a little. She has her eyes narrowed in suspicion, her heart is beating slower despite her heavy breathing. She's being careful. That's his Caroline, always so in control. He has a vision of her in red and smiles.

"I actually came because I had a proposal."

"Let's hope it's better than your last one."

"Oh, Caroline," he says, leaning close. Her eyes dart to his, "The night I asked you to marry me, you damn near broke the bed. Are you really going to start with the—?"

He shouldn't be so pleased when she buries her fingers into his chest and _growls_ at him. "Lonely without your humanity, Stefan?"

"I wouldn't call it lonely with all the souls I've been mongering," he muses, "but I do miss your thighs wrapped around my neck…"

He takes a step forward, she moves swiftly to his pace. She knows how to lead – she always just lets him dance. "As much fun as this passive aggressive dancing is—"

"And we all know how much you value your fun."

"—back to my proposal." He dips her low, hums against her throat. "How do you feel about coming on a road trip with me?"

—

—

The decision he'd made was this:

"Damon's out. You're in."

She doesn't actually have much say in the matter, seeing as how she's got her ankles on the dashboard, sucking down on a Capri Sun. She sends him a look of pure loathing and it sends a thrill down his spine.

That's more like it.

"He's more trouble than he's worth when he's in this state." He signals before changing lanes: Caroline looks like she's about to comment on this but changes her mind.

Instead, she snorts. "And I'm not?"

"You're efficient," he says. "We can get this done much faster with you helping me – and isn't that what you wanted? Me snuggled at your side?"

Caroline stares at him. "I'm not going to help you send innocent souls to Cade."

Stefan pulls a face. "What about dirty, corrupt souls then?" The rest will come later. He'll find a way. He's sure.

"But you said three, ten years. What if this is you trying to trick me—"

"It _is_ me trying to trick you, Caroline," he sighs exasperatedly, "so if you're going to blink, blink now."

She flicks her straw at him. "Did Sybril screw around in your head too? You expect me to bend the knee because of how _charming_ you're being right now?"

"Hey, worked when you agreed to marry me." He grins, then slips his sunglasses on. "So what do you say? You and I, partners in crime, 'til death do us part?"

"You're awfully confident a fiancé," she says witheringly, "for someone whose fiancé is sans ring."

"Want it back? I kept it safe for you."

"No." She tells him. And then she looks out the window.

He grits his teeth and blasts the radio.

—

—

Some fifteen miles out of Mystic Falls Stefan pulls into a diner and picks off a face from the crowd. He's good at that, laying the trap and emptying them out. Caroline, despite herself – or maybe because of it, asks: "How can you tell?"

He lets the body crumple at his feet and looks at her, eyebrow quirked.

"The ones who can, you know… Go rogue. Follow the path of evil, whatever you call 'em." She shrugs. The body goes still. Woman, mid-20s. Pretty purple dress, floral print, cut out in the back. He wouldn't mind seeing Caroline in it.

"You get good at listening after a while," he says, but then pauses. How does he do it? With Damon it had been a case of choosing the worst case scenarios for the older Salvatore, but lately he'd been approaching it with more… finesse, he could say. Something almost akin to a system. No wonder Caroline wanted to know. There must be a formula to everything.

He can't help but give a rueful smile at that, but then it's gone the next instant. "You look for the tells. A pure heart, if there even is one, supposedly abhors sins. They don't just forsake it."

"Yeah, but how do you _know_ ," Caroline clicks her tongue. "Unless you spend a lot of time talking to these people before you drain them of blood…" She watches her face, and then claps a hand to her mouth to hide her smirk. "Oh my God, you _do_. What, do you stalk their Facebooks and have meaningful heart-to-hearts to try gauge the dark side of their hearts? Operation Therapy Road Kill? This is what Cade has you doing?"

Stefan doesn't answer.

Caroline doesn't stop smirking.

"Yeah, so not efficient."

—

—

"Stop being so smug," he finally says after the twelfth kill of the day. Caroline has been ever the petulant passenger, ankles on the dashboard, snickering up a storm over his methods when she isn't looking appalled at his choices. He'd veered towards the truly criminal and corrupt just to get her to stop nagging at some point.

"I could've gotten him to admit his sins twice as fast," she says, examining her nails.

"So why don't you?" he challenges, stepping down on the accelerator. "That's why I roped you in in the first place."

"Exactly. You revealed your cards too early, Stefan. I've got leverage now." She yawns, then leans her seat back. She looks like she's settling in for an afternoon nap. "By the way, no motels. If you want me to teach you my system, I'm going to need to put my neck on a proper goose down pillow."

Stefan's lips twist downward. The only _un -_ efficient part about Caroline is her need for comfort-slash-luxury at all times—but then, if it meant she'd be cooperative…

He switches lanes at the last minute and heads for the city.

Somehow, amidst all her rushed packing, Caroline had it in her to pack herself a little black dress that she is now pressing up to the bar, beaming her thanks when the bartender slides her a drink "from the fella in the back".

The absence of his ring on her finger has never been more prominent as it is now, and he makes his way towards her, the posture of a man with an endgame to meet.

"Nice of you to join me, Mr. Salvatore," she giggles around her olive. "What is that, your eighteenth victim now? Do you have a daily quota to meet or do you stop when you feel the cramps settling in?"

"Ha," he says shortly. "Bourbon," is what he directs to the bartender.

"So serious," she scolds, before surveying the crowd. She sees faces, he sees flesh encasing blood, temporary heartbeats. "So which one of these lucky souls are you going to be chatting up tonight?"

He sidles up to her, relishing the way she eyes his shoulder, how close it is to bumping hers. "I was sort of hoping you'd do the honors."

"You can't be serious."

He meets her eyes evenly. "I upheld my part of the bargain. Swanky hotel, swanky bar. I'll even stick to your _bad guys only_ rule, as annoying as that is."

Caroline pretends to consider this as she runs a finger along the rim of her glass. "So what's my motivation?"

"You are being incredibly overbearing right now," Stefan tells her, but doesn't tell her that he's kind of enjoying it. Let's just say talks of Damon's burgeoning morality had been an utter snooze fest the past few days. This – this is refreshing.

"Like this."

And suddenly he's stepping closer, voice lowered, hands on her shoulders. He guides her away from the bar, inexplicitly bumping right into the small of her, her soft lines, her curled hair with the ruby pins nestled in their furls. "You pick a face that you like. It can be any face at all – any one that pleases you."

"And then?" Caroline's breathing is carefully even now. His jaw is just off the side of her cheek, he imagines her eyes to be intent on the crowd, focused on anything but the slow slide of his hands down her arms as he finds her elbows.

"You ask them for the simple pleasure of their company," he says into her ear, "and you listen to that jump in their heartbeat as they look at you. Beautiful woman, standing so close… You'll be able to _hear_ all the impure thoughts they'll be having."

Caroline scoffs softly. He keeps his hands where they are, feels something akin to nostalgia as he asks, "You don't believe in your own beauty?"

"Maybe I believe in people more," she fires back. She downs the rest of her drink in one go and steps subtly out of his grip, pressing her empty glass into his hands. "Be right back."

Stefan watches her golden head bob through the crowd, watches her settle by a middle-aged man with a too-wide mouth and a gleaming Rolex. He watches her laugh and tilt her head, traces the slender line of her neck as she accepts the man's hand.

Blood roars all around him, and all he can see is Caroline.

"Selmy," he hears the man introduce himself. "And you must be mine for the evening?"

"Nope, you're mine," Caroline says in response, and Stefan's never felt himself smile so wide.

—

—

It goes without saying that he kisses her in their hotel room later.

You know, after he convinces her to break the maid's neck with her teeth.

She's surprised, but she melts into it easily, fingers finding the nape of his neck and yanking at the hair there. She always kisses him like that, hungry – it reminds him of all the ruthless people he's ever met in his life, and everything they've ever had to lose.

"You were fantastic," he tells her feverishly between kisses, forgoing the hidden zipper of her dress completely and ripping right through the fabric. Caroline lets out a whine and shoves him slightly—"This was _bespoke!"_ —doesn't matter, he's got her pressed down onto the bed.

"Very efficient," he hums against the wild drum of her heart, and despite the scowl she has on her face he knows she's pleased, he knows how she likes to be complimented. "I was very impressed."

"And evidently, shocked about it," she says and rolls her hips upwards into his. He groans, his forehead falling against her sternum. Caroline takes advantage of the moment to flip them over, her thighs settling _very_ nicely around his hips. And when she starts _moving_ , his fingers sink into her hips, and – fuck, there is entirely too much fabric on her right now.

"Should I apologize?" he grins, but it wavers when she shakes her head.

"I've missed you," she says slowly. Watching him.

He looks at her, takes in her ruined hair, the flush in her cheeks that only a fresh, hot feed can put there, that single trail of blood down the side of her mouth she hadn't managed to clean before he whisked her away. He catalogues this look on her, is suddenly bombarded by a version of her on that damned laundry room floor, hair pulled away from her face, and he'd told her so earnestly then that he loved her, and she only laughed, the smell of fabric softener was _everywhere_ —

"I've missed you too," he tells her decidedly. That one, he will allow. Cade won't have to know.

"Good," she breathes, and all at once it is too much, his fingers twitch and she's divested of her dress, and there's all that _skin_ to marvel at, to run his hands over. He can fit his entire palm on the flat of her stomach, and he takes her in like this, smelling of blood and gin and the unfamiliar trace of rich, peppery cologne that he'll lick off her soon enough.

He zeroes in on the pulse in her neck, presses two fingers just above the vein, feels the capillaries around his eyes appear. Caroline notes this with pupil-blowned fascination, squeals when he seizes her in his arms and has her under him before she can finish that breath. Her wrists in his hands feel breakable, brittle like twigs, but against his palms he feels the rush of her heart. His breath dampens the heave of her chest, and he licks a wet stripe up her sternum, between her collarbones, up the collumn of her neck. It is easy to lose himself in the taste of her skin – if he sucks hard enough he can taste her already, all ready to fall apart.

"Your shirt—take – _off_ ," she gasps brokenly. He happily acqueisces, and there must have been something truly animal in the smile he gives her because he sees her pause, a hesitance even in the haze of lust clouding her gaze.

Well, this won't do.

He doesn't promise sweet nothings like he knows _that_ Stefan would – and he doubts his Caroline would be stupid enough to believe him. He wonders if Caroline with her humanity off would have an undead heart beating _this_ hard at the sight of him right now, if she would be scared.

She wouldn't, he decides – but he doesn't remember much of the time both of them had Bonnie and Clyded their way through campus green. He remembers flashes of red, he remembers the blood, and by God he remembers the sex, but he doesn't remember much the pound and thrash of her heart, no, not like the way it rattles between her ribs now, and it drives him mad.

Her fingers are on his face, tracing the black veins flashing under his eyes. Her finger pricks against the point of his fang and her blood stains his tongue – he blinks away stars, watches her face with intent. She's looking back at him with the same fervor, and – fuck, she's sliding her finger into his mouth. His eyes close as his tongue works against the little nick he'd made, tastes the slide of her blood down his throat.

Caroline pulls her finger out and presents him his wrist, this maddening woman with wide blue eyes, heart pounding in her chest, giving _him_ , the Ripper, an open invitation to dive right into her and settle into her skin. He has the strange urge to bite clean through flesh and bone, to drain her dry, to let her drink from him, to have her choke on his blood, he blinks away red—

Her bra tears away easily under his hands and he doesn't realise he's bitten her breast until the taste of her completely engulfs him – she lets out a cry but holds him closer, hips bucking beneath his, and when he resurfaces and sees how black her eyes have gone he knows her blood must be smeared all over his mouth.

"Come here," she rasps, and his wrist is between her teeth and she takes a long, indulgent pull. He feels something in himself tugged forward to meet her, he feels the world dim around them as she drinks from him, feels his breath come up hard and fast – he falls forward, their foreheads bang together, but still she keeps her eyes on his and never looks away.

When she tells her she loves him, it's with a mouthful of his blood.

He doesn't answer. Maybe she hadn't expected him to, because she wrestles him onto his back and divests him of his pants, until the only thing seperating them truly being skin to skin are her panties and his boxers. She settles on the hard ridge of his cock and he's never felt so close to going crazy as he is now, thrusting up into her.

"Not yet," she says, one hand braced on the headboard and the other pulling the hair away from his forehead. She looks – truly – beautiful. Kissed red, ends of her hair heavy with blood. They'll probably have to burn the sheets later with the amount that's streaming down her chest.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks through his teeth, and he's so hard it's all he can do to hold in a long wrought-out groan. She rocks her hips and his head falls back against the pillow, pleasure jolting up his spine. "You know how good I'd feel inside you."

"I know. But I'm about to fuck my humanity-less fiancé in a bed covered in our blood. Excuse me if I need a chance to evaluate my life."

"Seriously? Compartmentalizing even now?" His fingers find the lacy band of her panties – why is he smiling? "Let _go_."

She grinds down against him and he hisses. He swears the red he's seeing isn't the blood. "I am going to rip right through these, don't think I won't."

Caroline smiles sweetly at him. "Go right ahead."

It's oddly satisfying, the sound of her underwear tearing, but what's even more satisfying is the sound she makes when rolls her onto her back and presses his chest down onto her breasts, puts his whole weight on her, watches her struggle to breathe. Her fingers tear at his back and her thighs wrap around his hips with crushing force, but he knows her moan is more pleasure than pain when he finally, _finally_ slips into her.

Caroline turns her head, presses her cheek into the pillow, but he grips her chin and forces her to face him. "Don't you dare muffle that dirty mouth of yours."

He's pleased when all she manages in reply is a stream of breathless expletives. He thrusts deeper into her, lets out a shuddering breath against her ear when he feels her tighten around his cock. The pressure that's rolling low in his stomach builds when she arches into him, and this, he's missed _this,_ their hips snapping together, her sweat slick against his skin, the overwhelming _feeling_ of her clenched around him, the room reduced to nothing but the insistent pound of her heart, the heady perfume of her hair. His fingers fumble between them, down to her clit, and she curses against his lips as he presses his thumb down in rough circles.

"Stefan," she gasps, and her lips graze his lashes, her breath wets his forehead—

"Yes," is all he can say.

She cries his name out another time, and another, and another, and he follows with a whisper of her name in between other nonsense he has no control of, and the sight of her with her fingers grasping the sheets, hair a wildness draped over the pillow, eyes closed to the relentless surge of his hips, is what does him in, but—

"You need to come right now," he rasps, and miraculously her eyes snap open, her chest heaves, and with a slick press of his thumb she indeed does come, a cut-off cry interspersed with half-sighs of his name.

 _You_ , is what he has time to think before he's not thinking anything at all.

—

—

Caroline talks him out of burning down the entire hotel later.

"Think of how _inconvenient_ that would be," she stresses, slipping on her cat-eye sunglasses. "Isn't it enough that we torched the room?"

"Pity," he says agreeably, "We made some nice memories there."

Caroline doesn't blush, to her credit. "Back on the road. We're still sticking to bad guys, right?"

"Sure we are."

They step out onto the busy street, arms linked. The sun is high in the sky. It doesn't burn him, but it's a near damn thing.

—

—

 _fin_

* * *

let me know what you think! i was a bit apprehensive about writing this entirely from stefan's pov - hell, i shy away from this elusive fucker on his humanity days, this is him in ripper mode. i mean tq paul wesley for being weird levels of hot, but why must stefan be so complex, man? hope i did good.


	2. look what you've done

**shoot me some LOVE because now this is apparently a third parter? blame ishi? do i even have a soul anymore?**

* * *

.

.

 **I come alive in the fall time,**

 **II**

—

He will not feel but he will remember:

A snap of the spine, the vacancy of remorse, the churn and tide of sadness. Pain. Guilt. Grief.

He remembers the emotions. It is easier, now, to look upon them as abject words instead of the gaping maw of _feeling_ , to be as obtuse as commenting on a painting, "That is where he went wrong. That is where I will not go."

Caroline touches him and he does not feel, but he remembers: hardwood floors, scrubbed clean yet scuffed with age; golden hair spilling out of a bun, the smell of lavender in the warm soak of their clothes.

And she is laughing.

He closes his eyes. That, is where he will not go.

—

—

In the next few days he progresses through faces, towns, teeth, cities, blood. He's dropped the habit of remembering their names, the tremble and scrape of lists and columns on a wall – it's Caroline who starts picking it up. Hesitantly, at first, but then tucking their hair behind their ears and whispering, like a sweet reprieve before death, "Tell me your name."

She writes them down in a book he has tried many times to burn, but she wrestles it out of his grip, tears and scratches her way back to humanity, and he stands with a twisted, split lip, wondering at the _futility_ of it all.

He remembers the rock of her hips in the singed hotel room – "Let _go_ , Caroline."

"The harder you try, the stronger I'll hold on," she counters, and he knows she's not talking about the book she's hugging close to her breast,

He wonders, idly, if this is when he starts becoming possessed with the idea of getting her to turn it off.

—

—

It's a long, long road, made longer by the rain slapping down in grey sheets against the windshields. Caroline has her ankles up – she always has her ankles up – and is humming along to the tinny music clanging out of her earphones.

She hasn't paid attention to him for some hours.

It's fine, because he's planning.

"Sure is homey," he comments without bothering to raise his voice. He knows she hears him through the music.

They pull up to a little bed and breakfast, a cottage creeping with vines, neat little bricks, and a lush and sprawling garden. It reminds him of the two days he'd spent locked up in a room with Caroline trying to undo her humanity-less spell, and it fills him up with something positively feral.

Caroline looks on in interest, but no verbal agreement.

"You don't look impressed."

"I'm having a hard time imagining any bad guys dwelling here."

"In that case," and he rises to the challenge, "how about a trip to New Orleans?"

It's so fast and so loaded that he couldn't possibly miss it: the look she gives him. A warning and a question all at once.

He cocks a smirk at her. "You did say bad guys only."

"Stefan."

"And I imagine Cade would have a _field_ day with Klaus' soul disintegrating in hellfire."

"You think this is funny." And loathe as she looks to bring it up, he knew he would – he _knew_ – because she's Caroline: "You can't. He saved your life."

"For you," Stefan shoots back. He observes the way her face is a mask now, carefully devoid of emotion. It's only temporary – Caroline feels too much to be able to hold it all in. Pity, really. "He told me to let you go."

"And –" Caroline busies herself with putting her earphones into her bag. "What did you think?"

"Thinking he's right."

Caroline very visibly bites her tongue, but she doesn't share the same bed as him that night, which, not that he notices, busy as he is sublimating.

—

—

They're standing in a vestibule. Through the oiled double doors they can hear the soar of a voice vibrating off of high, stone walls. A hundred years ago he'd thought setting foot in a church would result in him lighting up in fire.

Safe to say, he doesn't think that anymore.

"Stefan – _Stefan_." Caroline catches his arm. "I didn't say anything earlier, but – okay, if there is literally a hellfire hotel that Cade apparently owns, don't you think doing this will cross you off _that,_ " she points upwards, sheepish, determined all at once,"—waiting list, permanently?"

"Heaven's a lost cause, Caroline," Stefan says, continuing on his path. "I'm surprised you're still selfish enough to think it isn't after all the people we maimed and murdered."

It's all too easy for her to bite. "You mean _you_ maimed and murdered."

Stefan whips around. "I'm not talking about our murder road trip, Caroline. I'm talking about the time you turned it all off and left everything to instinct. I'm talking about your fangs and how they tasted coated with blood. I'm _talking_ ," Stefan continues, stepping closer and closer, "about the time you were bored one afternoon and we spread an entire soccer field red. I'm talking about you and me and the world between our teeth. Can't you just _taste_ it, Care?"

His hands cup her cheeks. He's standing so close his voice had dropped to barely a murmur, but her beating heart skipping tremendously tells him she hadn't missed a thing. Not with the way her breathing grows very shallow, or the way her eyes do not stray from his.

"I… can." Her eyes slide shut, they shut very tight, remembering everything he presumes. When she opens her eyes again, she is heavy-lidded with remorse. "I still do. That's the thing, Stefan. I remember each distinct taste of each nondescript human. I don't remember their names, but I remember how they taste. I don't even have a _name_ to be remorseful about. I just have faces, and guilt."

"So turn it off," he urges quietly. His thumb traces the high point of her cheekbones and he feels in her skin the turmoil of want and need and despair as she tries her hardest not to press her face into his touch. "Turn it off and be free."

Caroline stiffens. Stefan almost snorts.

"If you go today, Stefan," Caroline starts. Her voice is perfectly even, perfectly practiced. Perfect is a look he's grown to hate on her. "If you go, there's no turning back."

"What difference does it make if it's in a church or a diner?" Stefan asks and pulls away. He straightens his tie – never say he doesn't put effort in these jaunts – and nudges the door open with his shoulder, still looking at her. "They all make their choices in the end."

He saunters down the aisle just as the priest says, _As long as you both shall live_.

"It doesn't hurt to dream bigger, you know," he calls out to them. The stained glass filtered light into the densely packed church, and everyone looks kaleidoscopic. It's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.

He bares his fangs anyway.

—

—

The ride back to the cottage is the most silent of rides. Caroline has blood splattered down her front. She has blood barely licked around her mouth, too.

He doesn't feel sorry for the blood lust she'd fallen into, watching him press his fangs into all those pretty necks.

He's not so sure how he feels about this silence.

He indulges, instead, in the way she had appeared behind him, teeth ready to tear, eyes a black abyss. Too easy to tempt, too beautiful for destruction, but she finds an in-between and works at it. He waits for her to produce some hand sanitizers and hot towels, like last time, but she sits stock-still, staring out the window.

Her ankles are down.

And he realizes – no _shit_ , Sherlock – that her silence is anything but submission.

It's not a silence of pleading regret – it's a silence of white hot rage.

She slams the car door after her, tramples up the lane, and clangs the door open without as much as a hello to the front desk. With his ears pricked he can hear the thudding in her chest, harsh and murderous. His own chest stirs with interest.

He follows her in, pursuing the flirt-and-bounce of her skirt as she heads upstairs. She'd chosen that skirt this morning because she had woken up in still love with the bore that was Stefan "Horny for Humanity" Salvatore. She'd chosen soft lines and dreamy colours, things that sure would've lured out _that_ Stefan, and she'd turned to him with an expectant smile, like she was sure this was the day he'd come back to her.

By noon it was a different story.

"I hate you," she cries over the limp body of a girl he'd chosen specifically because she looked a little like Bonnie. Caroline lets out a long, bitter laugh. It hiccups out of her towards the end of it. "And the worst part is you got what you wanted all along. I _hate_ you, Stefan Salvatore."

He's still thinking about her unnecessary use of his full name when they get to the second floor landing. And finds himself practically kicked through the door. He crashes into the leather of the sofa; his head spins.

"You're on the couch tonight," Caroline says, as calmly as a woman who'd decided to use quinoa instead of rice in tonight's casserole. "I'm going to take a shower. See you in the morning."

Caroline walks the length of the room, knowing his eyes are on hers, a furious creak in his bones. Stefan flashes to his feet and his an arm blocking the door to the bedroom before she can close it. "That's a bit sexist. How come it's always us men who end up on the couch? Is anyone tallying this?"

"Oh, _now_ you want your feminist ally badge?" Caroline laughs derisively. "After you made those two girls fight over who they thought was the prettiest?"

"Vanity packs a punch in the darkness department," Stefan gives an exaggerated fist pump, and slides into the room. Caroline presses her back to the door as she shuts it, tracking him like a cat in the wild, a pounce ready in the spring of its feet.

"Here's the thing." He finds a seat at the perch of the side-table. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but I'll let the whole thing sl—"

Caroline blazes her way towards him and suddenly he's slammed onto his back, head hitting the damask tablecloth. She has her fangs out, hissing in his face, and he takes in a deep breath at the look on her face, like she wants to rip his throat out, he balls his fists into the satin of her dress and grins—

She kisses him. Her teeth bite down on his tongue, pricks the taste of red in his mouth. The table creaks as she crawls over him, digs her knees into the table, clamps her thighs around his hips, rests her forearm in the space above his head, and proceeds to make sure his mouth is thoroughly bruised by her tongue.

He's breathing hard, embarrassingly panting, because _fucked_ they had not since the hotel, _touched_ they had not since she figured out he was intentionally avoiding hers, not a single goddamn intentional press of her back as they get dress in the cramped space of the walk-in closet.

Caroline had been civil and stern all week.

Now, she's scraping her teeth across his collarbones.

He pulls her back to him, grabs the back of her head when they kiss, and by God she tasted like the sea, like cold water and weary salt. His other hand finds her cheeks, digs grooves into the delicate skin with his blunt fingernails, and she gasps, breaking the kiss.

"You're crying," he observes. He notes the disdain in his tone.

"Because I'm feeling too much," Caroline says, crushing the tears against her mascara with a quick swipe of her palm, "and you're a fucking idiot."

"Figured it out!" he bellows and sits up. Caroline nearly tumbles off in the abruptness, but he grabs onto her hips and keeps her close. " _You're_ about to nag. I'll take the couch before that happens. _Men_ , always a back door."

"I won't keep you from your sleep, then. Need to recharge those murder batteries, huh?" she grins winningly before letting her scowl slide back into place.

Stefan, on the contrary, doesn't let her go.

He pulls his head back just the slightest to study the state of her hair. It's in disarray, had been a mess since the impromptu Jeopardy Stefan forced the church inhabitants to play. She holds her head high, haughty as she always gets when she knows she's being scrutinized.

In a gesture truly of experimental motivation, he presses a kiss filled with intent, slow and hot against the dip between her breasts; nudges the cotton aside with his nose, breathes her in.

"Or." He blows on her skin and feels her shiver against his fingertips on the base of her spine. "We could fuck all night and you'll find a way for your pretty little heart to forgive me by dawn.

The sound coming from Caroline's lips sounds like half a sigh, half a snarl. Her body betrays her the minute he tightens his hold on her waist: she arches into him, and in a tumble and sigh he falls back against the table again, her warm mouth insistent against his.

Stefan lets her ride him because she needs to, because she's angry and vengeful, broken and sad, too. The heels of her palm rest heavily on his chest as she grinds her hips down, and only when he elicits a gasp does she take it easy on him. She's moving tantalizingly slow, fingers levering her as she moves, the conflict of pleasure and pain building in the stutter of his hips, and there's a sob breaking any time at the back of his throat.

When she breaks over him her cheeks are dry. She doesn't speak to him when she disentangles herself from his arms, and when she changes into a nightgown it's with back to him.

He goes to splash water on his face, steady his shaking hands on sides of the sink. By the time he makes it back into the room Caroline's curled up in her side of the bed, taking all the pillows and more than her share of the blanket, but leaves a space for him.

He sleeps on the couch instead.

—

—

When he wakes, he's sure his arm shooting out beside him, searching the blankets almost instinctually, was a thing he'd dreamt.

—

—

They're driving back to Vermont when he gets the idea.

It's a week before they finally make it to Long Island – New York City was a _blur_ of depraved souls and corrupt yuppies – and head straight to the heart of Brentwood, which circled around a lake.

That's where all the pretty houses are.

The pavements are pink and brown from the fallen flowers, but the tree makes for a certain charm, towering over the lawn, branches drooping low enough to scratch against the white-picket fence when the wind picks up. The front porch comes with the wholesome-looking swing in its corner, and there's already a welcome mat at the front door. A push of the door reveals a house Stefan called ahead and had an interior designer piece together in a gusto of uniform, tasteful colours, snuck straight from Caroline's binder of dream home colour schemes.

Caroline runs a finger against the texture of the walls, wide-eyed and mouth slightly parted.

There's no sight of any carpeting, which Caroline hums approvingly at, which only makes his smirk grow wider.

"Is this a homestay?" she asks from the other room.

"Nope," he calls back. "Just home."

Caroline had been perusing the album collection in the study, and he hears the rove of her fingers stop. "What."

"Surprise, I bought a house," he grins at the wall, imagining her expression now.

"For what?"

"So we have a place to host our housewarming party. That starts in just a little after two hours, by the way. You're really behind on your planning."

Caroline appears behind him in a flash. "What are you saying?"

"I have a gift. For being my best friend, for being my fiancé, and for being my wife. For agreeing to share what we have as individuals and making something that's ours. For as long as we both shall live." Stefan pulls out a ring encrusted in diamonds and blue lagoons, and still he keeps smiling. He can't help it, inside joke. The punchline involves him having stolen the ring from the dearly beloved, now dearly departed bride.

Amidst a backdrop of pastel-wearing neighbours all smiling sappily, Stefan slides the ring onto Caroline's finger with great fanfare, swears his eternal love to her, swears her white picket fences and 2.5 children should they ever be in a position to Kill Enzo, Damon, and the rest of the vampire population for the cure.

Love, blood and violence – makes for some pretty good vows, if you ask him.

The smiles of their guests still do not slip.

In her lovely lace and gleaming pearls Caroline isn't scowling indignance like he'd assumed she'd be. Her hand is still in his. There's a thoughtful silence stewing in the air around her, and she looks at him with eyes that are too bright. "I don't have a ring for you," she says deliberately. "But. You should have something too."

She flashes to her bag and rummages in it a second before she's back in an instant: in her hands balances the book, her list of names cultivated with great care. There is a tenderness in her eyes he hasn't seen in a while. And then something other than the usual dull murk of observation stabs him—hate, he thinks. He hates that look on her face right now.

"Rightfully, these names are yours anyway. It's a tradition. Take away the shape of it: names, rings. It all pretty much means the same." Caroline takes a deep breath. "I trust you not to violate these names. I trust you, Stefan. Even when you're like this."

She presses the book into his palms.

He thinks about her chaining him up in the Salvatore cellar, and she'd said _Because I love you, Stefan._

There's a bright burst of light in his eyes and suddenly he sees the floor, _that_ floor, smells the faint float of flowery soap that he distantly remembers having offered some comfort, the slip of a wrinkled shirt over his chest, Caroline laughing breathlessly, hair spilled onto the floor.

 _Because I love you_ , he breathed then, into her neck, into her neck, into her neck.

The hotel room. His throat gurgling with blood from her neck, that look in her eyes searching as always.

Cade, smiling with his too-white teeth, a glint in his eye, fading in and out against the flicker of the fireplace.

"Love, oh love," he sings. "How obtrusively _virtuous_ of her—to love a dead thing inside a shell of a man."

Stefan doesn't answer. He is but a soldier, waiting on every beck and call. He will not budge.

"Remember," Cade warns, voice slicing the air like the flick of a serpent tongue, like rich silk, "if she gets your humanity back on, she dies next."

 _I trust you_ , Caroline says, still so naïve. Why does he _love_ her—

He blinks. There's the book balanced in his hands, there's Caroline shooting him a smile before retreating to the bar, and he feels the urge to follow.

He feels –

Fuck.

.

.

tbc

* * *

 **let me know what you think!**


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